


Maybe All We Are’s A Photograph

by nazgularepeopletoo



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alone on Christmas, Christmas, Gen, Loneliness, Post-Canon, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28154469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazgularepeopletoo/pseuds/nazgularepeopletoo
Summary: Christmas is hard when you love someone who isn’t there. It’s even harder when they’ll never be there again.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: winter / holidays / new years





	Maybe All We Are’s A Photograph

The glass in Abernathy’s hand was suprisingly steady, given how shaky the rest of him felt. It was almost empty, which made him frown. He’d already drunk the whole thing? Hadn’t he just gotten it? With a small shrug, he waved at the barkeep, trying to get his attention.

The bar was surprisingly busy for the night before Christmas. Whether it was out with family, friends, or trying to score an extra buck to take home, people of all sorts were crammed into the narrow chairs, laughing and talking as if nothing was out of place. He was. He was out of place.

The barkeep hesitated after catching his eye, taking the time to dry a glass before finally making his way down the length of the bar. There was quiet for a moment before the man cleared his throat, indicating the almost empty glass.

“Shouldn’t ya slow down there, lance corporal? That’s already the third one this evening. It’s been an hour.” The crash that the tankard made shot the bar into silence, everyone staring apprehensively at the lone man at the counter. 

“I want another.” He was impressed a bit at how steady his voice was. “Last one, promise. Just need… just don’t wanna be alone tonight.” The barkeeps expression went from angry to sympathetic in a heartbeat, and he sighed. 

“Alright. Last one.” The man filled the tankard, not all the way, Abernathy noticed, but it was too late for him to care. With a nod of thanks he drank, draining half the liquid in one swallow. 

A sharp laugh from the table nearest him made him jump, the alcohol he’d readily consumed suddenly clamouring for an exit. He staggered to his feet, dropping more than enough money on the bar and making his way to the door before the barkeep could make him feel even worse by offering a ride. 

Frosty air bit at his face, clearing the nausea a bit. He sighed, pulling his collar up to try and cover his ears. He’d foolishly left without a cap, and he was suffering for it now. That was alright, it reminded him he was still alive. As if he needed a reminder.

Now that he didn’t feel sick, he took his time, wandering down city streets without paying attention, going completely the wrong direction for a while, so that by the time he arrived back at the small flat he lived in he was shivering, a light dusting of snow covering his hair and nose bright red. Fumbling with the key, he nodded at the old woman who lived next door, attracted by the stumbles with as much of a smile he could muster. She smiled kindly back, closing her door gently, vowing silently to bring some tea over the next day. No one should be as alone as that young man seemed.

The flat was dark, as he’d left it, but within moments he had a crackling fire, something his frozen limbs welcomed with relief. He shucked off his jacket and boots only after it was going, igniting the trail of water on the floor. With half frozen hands he poured himself a drink, ignoring the gentle lurch of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten, but that was fine. He had something in the icebox for tomorrow, he was sure. 

Taking a sip, he clumsily pulled a chair as close to the fire as he dared, dropping into it with a sigh. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth sink into his skin before using his free hand to pull a small cigarette tin out of his front pocket and clicking it open. Inside, nestled among the remnants of what looked like a tie, was a photograph. Abernathy didn’t remove it, just opened his eyes, gazing at it as the firelight flickered over cheekbones, a mop of dark hair, a uniform, wide eyes, a wider smile. Tears pricking at his eyes, he finally smiled.  
  


“Merry Christmas, mo ghràdh.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Photograph by Annie LeBlanc


End file.
